


Wednesday

by Anarfea



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Debatable Infidelity, Light BDSM, Multi, Under-negotiated Kink, brief Mycroft Holmes/Lady Smallwood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-18
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2019-03-20 12:07:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13717368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anarfea/pseuds/Anarfea
Summary: Greg and Mycroft have been seeing each other (neither of them calls it dating) for several months when Greg asks Mycroft on a date on Wednesday. Not ‘Valentine’s Day,’ even though it is, because Greg doesn’t want to spook Mycroft by appearing overly sentimental or romantic. Mycroft spooks anyway.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Mottlemoth for organizing this challenge!

Greg buttoned his shirt in the dark, leaving the top one undone and his tie in his jacket pocket. “Are you doing anything Wednesday?” he asked, glancing out of the corner of his eye at Mycroft, who was still lying back on his elbows, the sheets folded down to expose his bare chest.

Wednesday. Not ‘Valentine’s Day,’ even though it was, because Mycroft, Greg was sure, did not do Valentine’s Day. Mycroft and he hadn’t really even been on a proper date--not in public, anyway. No, they met in Mycroft’s office, or his club, and, on this and several previous occasions, in hotel rooms, for quick, furtive sex. And then they parted ways.

This was… probably not what Sherlock had in mind when he’d told Greg ‘look after him.’ But that first night, after the events at Sherrinford, he’d gone to wait for Mycroft at Whitehall while Mycroft had been getting debriefed by Lady Smallwood. When Mycroft had finally emerged at four in the morning, he’d looked like death warmed over. Greg had offered him a cigarette. Mycroft hadn’t been able to light it, his hands had been shaking so badly, and Greg had held it for him, had lit it as Mycroft took the filter in his lips. A jolt had passed through him, and he’d wanted nothing more than to pull Mycroft to him and press those lips to his own. It had been a completely inappropriate impulse. According to the guards he’d spoken to at Sherrinford, Mycroft’s sister had tried to make his brother kill him that night.

Worse, Mycroft had noticed. Even after hours in a cell with a corpse and hours more in Lady Smallwood’s office, he’d seen it, and he’d been surprised. Blinked, the way Sherlock sometimes did when something baffled that great brain of his, and then rocked back on his heels, smoking the cigarette. Greg had half-expected Mycroft to tear into him, to deduce every sexual thought he’d had since he was a teenager, but instead, Mycroft had finished his cigarette in silence, stubbed it out, and walked to his waiting car. He’d motioned for Greg to follow.

Greg had told himself he was seeing Mycroft safely home. Except that as soon as they were in the car, Mycroft had given the address of the Beaumont. He hadn’t even looked in Greg’s direction before talking with his driver, but as soon as the divider was rolled back up, Mycroft had slid across the leather seats and kissed him.

Greg had almost protested that he didn’t do this, he took people (to be honest, he took _women_ ) to dinner first, but Mycroft’s lips had been insistent and warm, and Greg had found his arms enfolding Mycroft’s back, fingers tightening in the fine wool of his suit. Even though he hadn’t been with a bloke since uni, hadn’t gotten off with someone in a hotel room since he’d been married, when they’d gotten to the Beaumont he’d followed Mycroft inside, and then he’d followed him to the room, breath catching in his throat as Mycroft pulled the keycard free of the door and the lock turned green. Mycroft had kissed him as soon as the door was closed, pulling him close and walking backwards, and Greg had followed him to bed.

He’d expected it to be a one night stand. Mycroft had thought he was going to die, and Greg had been there and all too willing. But a week later, Greg had stopped by Mycroft’s office, just to see how he’d been doing. They’d exchanged a few words about Sherlock and then snogged against the wall, rutting until they’d come in their trousers (Mycroft had spare suits at his office, Greg did not). They’d exchanged texts for two weeks after that. Mostly about Sherlock, again, but then out of the blue, Mycroft had invited Greg to lunch at his club, where apparently you weren’t allowed to talk, and had taken off his shoe underneath the long, white tablecloth and placed his stockinged toes against Greg’s cock, only to duck out after an hour, leaving Greg to wank furiously in a posh loo where they had an attendant (who almost certainly knew what Greg had been doing) who handed you a towel after. But mostly, Mycroft would send a car for him which would bring him to a hotel like this one--with rooms richly but impersonally furnished and discreet staff who knew ‘Mr Holmes’ by name and who made Greg wonder how many other men Mycroft had met like this.

It was… hot. Greg couldn’t remember the last time anyone had made him feel so desired, but it was a little bit demeaning, too, and ever so slightly creepy. But then, he’d known Mycroft was creepy when he’d started seeing him, he supposed. And he knew why Mycroft was playing these games. His life had been out of control lately, and he needed to feel in control when he was with Greg. And that was fine.

But Greg wanted more. He wanted to take Mycroft to a nice restaurant and have an actual conversation with him, to bring him back to his for a drink before tumbling into bed, maybe even to wake up and have Mycroft still be there in the morning. And so he’d asked--

“Wednesday.” Mycroft repeated.

Greg could hear the rise of his eyebrows, even though Mycroft’s face was in shadow. He couldn’t tell if Mycroft was surprised, or amused, or offended.

“Yeah. I just thought, maybe we could do dinner. Or drinks, if you don’t have time for dinner.”

“Regrettably, I have a conference call with Washington which will keep me occupied until late in the evening.”

“How late?”

“I cannot say for certain what time we will finish.”

“Right. Well, if it’s before ten, and you feel like doing something, text me.”

“Thank you for the invitation.”

“Anytime, you know that.” Greg gathered his coat, threw it over his shoulders, and kissed Mycroft on the forehead. Then he left without switching the lights on.

 

* * *

 

In retrospect, ‘Thank you for the invitation’ was a diplomat’s answer--polite without promising anything. Probably even a nice way of saying ‘I won’t call.’ But it was Valentine’s Day, and Greg had felt compelled to make some kind of romantic gesture. If he’d taken the time to examine his thoughts, he would have realized it was because he was still thinking of Stephanie and the fuss she’d have made if Greg hadn’t made a dinner reservation and bought her flowers… or better yet, booked a couple’s getaway at a B&B. If he’d stopped and remembered that he was (not really even) dating _Mycroft Holmes_ , he wouldn’t have done it. But he hadn’t stopped and thought about it. He’d acted on instinct, stopped at a florists, and bought a bouquet of pink, orange and yellow tulips (at least he hadn’t been stupid enough to buy roses), and written ‘Thinking of you--G,’ on the card. Then he’d swung by Mycroft’s office.

He texted Anthea and said he had a present for Mycroft, which had to be examined by security before he was allowed to go to her office.

“I’ll take those,” she said, reaching for the flowers.

“Actually, I was hoping I could deliver them.”

“Mr Holmes is in a meeting.”

“Yeah, he mentioned. Do you know when he’ll be out?”

“I’m afraid I can’t disclose that.”

“Right. But, I’m sure there’s a place where I could wait a bit without bothering anyone.”

“There really isn’t,” she said, but Greg was already making his way towards a row of chairs in the hallway. He sat in one across from Mycroft’s door, flowers across his knees.

“I’ll just wait here for a little bit, yeah? If he’s not out in an hour, I’ll leave.”

Anthea looked as though she were seriously considering calling security, then sighed and began typing again. He wondered if she was sending a message to Mycroft. If she was, there was no reply, or at least not one she cared to share with him.

Greg got out his phone and proceeded to check his work email, then the news, then football scores. He was just about to leave the flowers with Anthea when the door opened.

Lady Smallwood stepped out. She was dressed in a grey skirt suit and pearls, coat over one arm, pale hair upswept. She looked at Greg, then the flowers, and raised one eyebrow. The tiniest hint of a smile played at the corner of her lip.

Shit. Greg hoped he hadn’t just outed Mycroft to a coworker. He’d assumed Mycroft was already out, but the smirk suggested he might not be. He glanced through Mycroft’s doorway, hoping to get some inkling of how big a misstep he’d made. Mycroft was standing behind his desk. He was in his shirtsleeves. Greg couldn’t have been more shocked if he’d been naked. But it was the expression on Mycroft’s face, when he caught a glimpse of Greg across the hall, that made Greg’s stomach flip. He’d seen that expression on Stephanie’s face when he’d caught her cheating half a dozen times. A blend of embarrassment and defiance that said he was simultaneously guilty for what he’d done and that he had no intention of stopping.

Fuck. This was not what he needed, on Valentine’s Day of all days. He stood up and nodded at Lady Smallwood, who smiled and made her way down the hall. Then he glared at Mycroft, who motioned for him to come inside.

Greg was in no mood to be summoned or dismissed with a wave of Mycroft’s hand, but neither did he want to make a scene. He gripped the flowers and ducked into Mycroft’s office. The air that wooshed as he shut the door behind him smelled faintly of tulips and sex.

“Why are you here?” asked Mycroft. “I informed you I was busy.”

“I can see that.” Greg couldn’t keep the hurt out of his voice. “Why was she here?”

“Lady Smallwood is a colleague.”

“A colleague you happen to be shagging.”

Mycroft didn’t deny it. “I don’t remember agreeing to be exclusive.”

“No,” said Greg. “No, we never discussed it. We never discuss anything. But you knew.” He pointed the bouquet at Mycroft. “You knew what I thought and you knew how I felt about you.”

“I wasn’t aware _feelings_ played any role in our arrangement.”

“Really? Because I thought that was your thing. Being aware of everything.”

Mycroft’s expression hardened. “You were misinformed.”

“Apparently.” Greg tossed the flowers on Mycroft’s desk. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft blinked at the fingers of light which reached through the open door between the hotel room and the hallway. For a second, Greg was silhouetted in the doorway, his broad back to Mycroft. Then he was gone.

Mycroft sat upright against the headboard. He could still feel the warmth of Greg’s lips on his forehead. His body still ached from the stretch of Greg inside him. Greg had asked him on a date on ‘Wednesday.’ He’d specifically avoided saying ‘Valentine’s Day’--he didn’t want to seem overly sentimental, even though it was obvious he was motivated by a desire to mark the occasion. Greg had never asked him on a date before.

He would kill for a cigarette. Greg had shared one with him, that night after Sherrinford. He’d been waiting for Mycroft outside his office; the creases in his trousers said he’d been sitting for hours and his bleary eyes said he’d spent most of that time on his phone.

“Sherlock sent you.”

“Yeah.” Greg had stood up. “I think he wanted to check on you himself, but he said he had to speak with Molly Hooper.”

When last he’d seen his brother, his hands had been bloody from punching the coffin. There’d been terror in his face when he’d watched her in what he’d thought had been a booby-trapped kitchen, and realization in his voice when he’d said the words the second time. ‘I love you.’ It hadn’t surprised him that Sherlock had gone to her. “That’s… good.”

“I promised him I’d look after you. See you safely home.”

Home had hardly been safe, not since Sherlock had violated his space and filled it with bleeding paintings and killer clowns. He’d texted Anthea and asked her to make him a reservation at the Beaumont.

Greg had walked him out of the building, produced a packet of cigarettes from his coat pocket as soon as they stepped into the night air. Unopened Silk Cuts. Sherlock’s brand. Mycroft hadn’t been the person Greg had planned on comforting.

“These things’ll kill you, but….”

He’d snatched the packet, struggled to open it with his numb fingers. Greg had taken it back, freed a cigarette and held it out for Mycroft, who had put his lips to the filter while Greg lit the other end. He’d done the same for Sherlock, after Irene Adler.

Greg had stared at his mouth, heat in his gaze. Mycroft had been flummoxed. His suit had been rumpled and his hair had been greasy and the bags under his eyes had probably been visible from the CCTV camera across the street. Sherlock had put Greg up to this, somehow. Made a comment about how Mycroft needed looking after, mentioned how fragile he was, whatever would appeal to Greg’s sense of chivalry. It had been clear he liked playing the hero, offering his cigarettes. He probably would have offered his coat had they been out of doors longer than it took to smoke a single cigarette. There could be no other explanation.

Still, Mycroft had been intrigued. He’d not thought to survive the day. The prospect of spending the night (or rather, the early morning) with someone as attractive as Gregory Lestrade had suddenly been very appealing.

And so he’d brought Greg to the Beaumont. Had brought Greg to orgasm with a few quick strokes of his hand, had allowed Greg to return the favor before they’d collapsed against each other in bed. Mycroft had slept for two hours, and then left before Greg awakened.

That might have been the end of it. But Sherlock had sent Greg to check in on him again. And again.

_I’m not lonely, Sherlock._

Mycroft had nearly called his brother to demand he stop, had refrained because he feared a dig about goldfish.

He couldn’t bear Sherlock’s pity. The softness around his eyes as he said, quietly, “he did his best.” It was never enough, his best.

Sherlock wouldn’t have listened, but Greg might have, if Mycroft had told him to stop. Instead he’d put Greg through a series of tests, to see how seriously Greg took his promise to Sherlock. He’d pushed him against a wall in his office and made him come in his pants. He’d brought him to the Diogenes and teased him mercilessly, stroking Greg’s cock with his foot beneath the table and then leaving without letting Greg finish.

Greg had… passed the tests with flying colors. Or failed them abysmally. Mycroft wasn’t sure which. He would have been disappointed if Greg had broken off their arrangement, but also relieved, because at least he would have been right. And he’d been wrong so frequently, of late, about terribly important things. There had been so much he hadn’t seen coming.

Like this business with Greg asking him on a date on ‘Wednesday.’ Even if he’d ever been in a serious relationship (which he had not), Mycroft would never have acknowledged Valentine’s Day. It was a celebration of sentimentality, and Mycroft abhorred sentiment. Greg had to know Mycroft’s thoughts on the holiday, which meant he wasn’t asking for the date because he wanted Mycroft; he was asking because he’d promised Sherlock. He pressed his lips together in the dark. The knowledge that it was over was more of a disappointment than a relief, after all.

 

* * *

 

“Mycroft, my darling,” Lady Smallwood tangled her fingers in his hair, tugging slightly and pulling his head from between her still-trembling legs. “I think you have finally made it up to me.”

He licked her tanginess from his numb lips and struggled up from his aching knees. “I am glad to hear it. I rather disliked being in your debt.”

His cock throbbed, pressing against his trousers, aching for attention. She made no offer, and he did not ask. He wondered if it had been like this for Greg, at the Diogenes.

Greg was outside his office. Anthea had sent him an email to inform him of this while they’d been on the conference call with Langley. After they’d finally finished with the CIA director, he’d offered her a drink. She’d offered him a whiskey flavored kiss, which he’d accepted. Then she’d sat on the desk, drink in hand, and guided his head between her thighs.

Now, she smiled. “Did you? And here I thought you were enjoying working it off.”

“I was indeed, my lady, but I’m glad to be back in your good graces, all the same.”

She chuckled, a low and throaty sound. “Oh, I wouldn’t take it that far. You are forgiven. No more.”

“And what would I need to do, if I desired… more?”

She caught his chin in her hand, pulling it down so that he faced her, somehow seeming taller than he even though she was seated on top of his desk. “Let me watch him fuck you.”

Blood rushed to his face. “Alicia….”

“You think I don’t know you’ve been seeing DI Lestrade since Sherrinford?”

“I… suspected.”

“I don’t mind.”

“I think he will.”

“He’s outside, isn’t he? You wanted to be caught.”

He pursed his lips.

“You’re an idiot, Mycroft. Trying to destroy the one good thing to come out of this mess with your sister.”

“If this is how you feel, why did you….”

“Let you delight me with your mouth? You really can’t see yourself Mycroft, can you? You’re lovely. I wanted you. And you wanted to punish yourself.” She smiled. “I suppose we’re even now.”

This was not how this encounter had been meant to go.

Lady Smallwood gathered her coat and briefcase. “Should you regret what you’ve done tonight, and I suspect you will, my suggestion is that you grovel. You’re rather fetching on your knees.”

She opened the door, leaving Mycroft standing in his shirtsleeves as she made her way out, nodding at Greg, who sat across the hall, a bouquet of tissue and cellophane-wrapped tulips in his lap.

Greg scanned Mycroft up and down with widening eyes.

Mycroft lifted his chin, refusing to be cowed. This was what he’d wanted. Greg would be outraged; Mycroft’s behavior would remind him of his ex-wife’s infidelities. He’d end it, without feeling that he’d somehow betrayed Sherlock. Sherlock would surely have something particularly scathing to say on the topic, but he supposed it was an acceptable price to pay.

Greg stormed into his office, eyes narrowed, and dared him to deny his relationship to Lady Smallwood.

Mycroft didn’t. He’d done nothing wrong. They hadn’t even been officially dating.

“You knew.” Greg thrust the bouquet at him, accusing. “You knew what I thought and you knew how I felt about you.”

Mycroft drew himself up to his full height. “I wasn’t aware _feelings_ played any role in our arrangement.”

“Really? Because I thought that was your thing. Being aware of everything.”

Greg’s words hit hard enough that Mycroft would have preferred he’d slapped him. Because Greg was right. That had been Mycroft’s role, to see everything, anticipate anything. And he hadn’t seen what Eurus was doing, and his brother had almost died for it.

“You were misinformed.”

“Apparently.” Greg flung the flowers on his desk. “Happy Valentine’s Day.” He spun on his heel towards the office door.

Mycroft almost called after him. Groveled. He clenched both fists into balls and bit his lower lip red as Greg opened the door and then shut it behind him. Then he slumped into his chair, rocking forward until his head fell into his hands. What was done was done. It was too late to worry if he’d done right.


	3. Chapter 3

Blue lights lit up the pavement in front of Greg’s feet as he stepped up to the address Sally had given him. Domestic dispute gone too far; Happy Valentine’s Day. Greg was actually relieved to be called after he thought he was done for the day. It would save him going home to his empty flat and moping or drinking alone.

He opened the front door and made his way into the living room. Sally stood with her arms folded, watching Sherlock, who was kneeling, using a blacklight to illuminate circular marks showing where someone had mopped blood from the wooden floor.

On any other night, Greg would have been pleased that Sally had asked Sherlock to the scene; the two of them had been getting on considerably better since Sherlock’s return. But tonight, the last thing he wanted was for Sherlock to deduce how badly his night had gone.

“You were right to call me, Sally,” said Sherlock. “On the surface, it looks like a domestic dispute--husband kills wife, most likely with that conspicuously clean poker,” he gestured to the object in the fireplace, “then he dumps the body. But so many little details are wrong.”

“The coffee table,” said Sally.

“Yes. It’s tipped over, but none of the other furniture around it is disturbed. It looks--”

“Staged.”

“And there’s no body.”

“Yet,” said Anderson from the doorway.

Both Sherlock and Sally glared.

“You won’t find one,” said Sherlock. “Lestrade, I think what we have is a case of a woman trying to frame her husband for murder.”

If only it were so simple, for Sherlock to proclaim the thing and have it be solved, but there was still procedure to follow. I’s to dot and T’s to cross. Greg expected Sherlock to swish out of the room in his coat, but he waited until Greg finished up, and then walked with him out the door.

“How is my brother? Have you been looking after him?”

“I tried.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “What’s happened? Is he alright?”

“Nothing’s happened to him,” Greg hurried to reassure him. “He’s fine. More than fine, he seems to be… socializing again.”

“Mycroft. Socializing. With whom?”

Greg regretted bringing it up. “A colleague.”

“Mycroft works with colleagues. He doesn’t _socialize_ with them.” He broke his stride for a moment. “Lady Smallwood.”

“Yeah,” Greg admitted.

“Norbury,” Sherlock muttered.

The woman who’d shot Mary Watson. What did Sherlock think that had to do with--

“This is my fault. I told Mycroft that Lady Smallwood was the one who betrayed Mary and her colleagues. He accused her wrongly and now he thinks he owes her.”

Greg frowned. “Sherlock, your brother hardly strikes me as the type to try to pay a debt off by….”

“Oh, god.” Sherlock brought his hands to his ears. “You caught them _in flagrante delicto_.”

“Well, not exactly. But it was pretty obvious that they’d been--”

“Don’t. Don’t.” Sherlock shook his head. “You’ve already put too many thoughts in my head.”

“Sorry.”

Sherlock sighed. “Mycroft is… unmoored. I’ve never seen him like this. I don’t know what to think.”

“All I know is that when Stephanie stopped bothering to hide her affairs from me, I knew it was over.”

Sherlock did the blinky thing. “Wait. You and Mycroft were….”

Greg raised his eyebrows. “I thought you knew.”

“No. I mean I… I suggested he try to find himself a… someone. But I meant a _friend_ , not…. And I didn’t think you were….”

“Yeah, well. We’re not. Anymore.”

“I’m sorry.” Sherlock actually sounded sincere.

“So am I.”

 

* * *

 

“Lestrade is the best thing that could have possibly happened to you. Explain why exactly you decided to ruin it.”

Mycroft nearly hung up his phone, decided that would only delay the inevitable. He leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the desk. “Sherlock, as much as I appreciate your attempts to help me find a goldfish….”

“Greg is not a goldfish. He’s a man. And good at it.”

“And I’m not.”

“You’re twisting my words.” His brother was snappish, but beneath that, there was hurt.

Mycroft knew he wasn’t being fair. It was hardly Sherlock’s fault their parents had refused to see reason on the subject of Eurus. Or that they saw Sherlock, despite his history, as the ‘grown up.’ “Apologies. Everything in my mind twisting of late.”

“Yes, and it’s making you self-destructive.”

Years of scrawled notes clenched in track-marked fists-- “And you think _you_ can lecture _me_ on self-destruction.”

“It is an area with which I have in-depth experience.”

“When I feel compelled to poison myself with mind-altering substances, I will consult you.”

“You think you don’t deserve him. And that’s true, especially after what you did. But he cares for you. And you hurt him. You knew he’d be particularly sensitive to infidelity, thanks to his ex-wife, and you deliberately pushed what you knew was a sore spot so he would end things because you were too much of a coward to do it yourself.”

“Please. I gave him an out. You put him up to this. And it was enjoyable, while it lasted, but the charade had gone on long enough.”

“Charade? Is that what you think? That I told him, ‘I’m concerned about my brother, please date him for me regardless of your own feelings’?”

Mycroft remained silent. Sherlock had struck too close to home.

“That’s exactly what you thought. Because that’s exactly what you’d do. Ask someone to look after me, pay them to date me. So you thought I did that with Greg. Well here’s a news flash, Mycroft. I didn’t even know you and Greg were dating, until he told me this afternoon. I asked him to check up on you after that night at Sherrinford. That was all. Anything else he did of his own volition.”

Stunned as he was to hear them, Sherlock’s words had the ring of truth.

“Perhaps Lestrade read an instruction into your words which you did not intend.”

“Occam’s Razor, Mycroft. The simplest explanation is that he was actually interested in you. But you can’t accept that Greg cared, because if you acknowledged that his feelings were genuine, you’d have to admit that you hurt him.”

“Yes.”

“‘Yes,’ you agree with my logic or ‘yes,’ you admit you hurt him?”

_You knew what I thought and you knew how I felt about you._

A lead weight settled over his chest. “I hurt him.”


	4. Chapter 4

A black Jaguar was waiting outside his building when Greg finally made it home. Fuck, he did not want to fucking deal with this.

Mycroft slipped out of the car smoothly, elegant in his long coat, one hand holding his umbrella and the other a bouquet of black calla lilies and red roses. Greg hated him a little.

“Allow me to apologize,” Mycroft began, taking a step towards him.

“No. No, we are not doing this.”

“If you’d permit me to explain--”

“I spent ten years listening to excuses, Mycroft. I’m not doing it again.”

“I know. That was why I did it. Because I knew. I knew that it would hurt you and I knew you would leave and--”

“Then you got what you fucking wanted, didn’t you?” He strode purposefully towards his building.

Mycroft followed him. “I… I miscalculated. I thought that Sherlock had… put you up to this somehow.”

“Sherlock didn’t even know we were shagging.” Greg struggled with his key.

“I know. He told me. Greg, please, I know I’ve no right--”

“You don’t.”

“I’m not asking you for forgiveness. Just… let me apologize properly.”

The key finally turned. Greg pushed the door with his shoulder. Mycroft followed. Greg whirled around. He nearly pushed Mycroft back, then stopped and took a deep breath. “Don’t.”

“Please.” There was desperation in his eyes.

“Fine. What’s your idea of a proper apology?”

Mycroft sank down to his knees, still clutching the flowers.

For a second, memories of all the other times Greg had seen Mycroft in this position flashed before his eyes. He was pretty sure that was deliberate.

“Mycroft.” His voice was hoarse. “Are you propositioning me?”

Mycroft’s brows furrowed.

Greg guessed that was a ‘no,’ then.

“Do you want me to be?”

Greg’s fingers trailed down the side of Mycroft’s face, thumb pressing at the seam of his lips. Mycroft took Greg’s thumb into his mouth.

“You can’t do this,” Greg said. “You can’t just suck me off and act like none of this ever happened.”

“No,” Mycroft agreed. “I can’t. I promise you I will never forget what happened, or pretend it didn’t, and I will never do anything like this again. I know you’ve heard that before. But I mean it.”

“Is this what you did for her?” Greg asked, more bitterness in his voice than he intended. “Sherlock said that you thought you owed her. Is this how you always respond when you’ve bollocksed something?”

Mycroft flushed. “No. I understand why you would think that. But this isn’t…. I don’t usually…. Lady Smallwood is an old mentor. And I wronged her. But I would never have…. I only did it because I wanted to give you a reason to leave. If you wanted to leave.”

“And that’s all there was to it? You didn’t enjoy yourself at all?”

“I….” The flush spread down Mycroft’s neck and pinked his ears. “I did.”

Something had shifted in the air. Greg could taste it. There was no reason to forgive Mycroft, and certainly no reason to give in to this desire to push, to press, to make Mycroft squirm. But he _wanted_. “What did you enjoy? Tell me.”

Mycroft cleared his throat. “Lady Smallwood has… a firm hand.”

“And is that what you need, Mycroft? A firm hand?”

Mycroft tilted his face into Greg’s palm.

Greg twisted his fingers in the hair at the back of his head. 

Mycroft swallowed.

Greg tugged, pulling Mycroft to his feet, arching his neck back, grazing his Adam’s apple with his teeth. “Upstairs,” he huffed. “Probably shouldn’t fuck you here on the floor.”

Mycroft let out a breathy sound.

“Or maybe I should.”

“If you wish.”

Greg chuckled. “God, you’re getting off on this, aren’t you?”

Mycroft’s blown pupils were the only answer he needed.

Greg tugged him towards the lift, repeatedly banged the call button. As soon as the doors opened, he manhandled Mycroft inside and snogged him against the wall. The flowers hit the floor with a muffled thud.

The bell dinged. Greg released Mycroft, who gathered the bouquet (only slightly worse for wear) and followed him silently into his flat.

At least it was clean. Greg had spent his day off tidying, had changed the sheets, bought a single malt whiskey he hoped wouldn’t offend Mycroft’s palette. All in the hope that he might bring Mycroft home tonight. Now Mycroft was here. And Greg was simmering with lust and fury, which seemed to turn Mycroft on. Greg wanted to hurt him. And he had done that before--slapping, spanking, using his handcuffs recreationally. It had been a while, not since the early days with Stephanie. But he knew enough to know he shouldn’t do it while angry. 

He forced himself to slow down. Take deep breaths. Put the flowers in water. Pour himself a scotch (he deliberately did not offer a glass to Mycroft). Mycroft watched everything with his sharp eyes, a hint of unease in the line of his neck and shoulders. Good.

Greg sat on the sofa, sipped his drink. “Strip.”

For a second, he thought Mycroft would protest. But he removed his jacket, then his waistcoat, folding them neatly on the back of Greg’s sofa. These were not the clothes he’d been wearing earlier when Greg had caught him with Lady Smallwood, thank God.

“Entertain me,” Greg demanded.

Mycroft raised both eyebrows. Slowly, he untied his tie, held the length of fabric between his hands. He walked towards Greg sinuously, then straddled him, running the length of tie behind Greg’s neck and pulling him close.

Greg undid Mycroft’s buttons, spreading his shirt open, flicking the pink, oval nipple he exposed.

Mycroft flinched.

Greg pulled the nipple between his fingers, twisted.

Mycroft inhaled sharply, watched as Greg took the nipple between his lips, then his teeth.

“Did I say you could stop stripping?”

Mycroft wrapped his hands behind Greg’s head, unfastened both cufflinks, and transferred them to his pockets, grinding into Greg’s lap all the while. He stood to unfasten his trousers, then shimmied them down over his hips.

“Turn around.”

Mycroft dropped his trousers, revealing his sock garters, letting the fabric pool at his ankles. Greg slapped his arse.

“You went to public school, didn’t you?”

Mycroft stepped free of his trousers, widened his stance enough that he could grab his ankles.

Greg stared at the globes of his arse, the white tops of his thighs, and unfastened his own too-tight trousers. He stood up and pulled his belt free, letting it whistle through the loops, watching Mycroft’s muscles clench, then relax in anticipation.

“As much as I want to beat you black and blue, I won’t.” Greg’s voice was rough. “If it gets to be too much, tell me to stop. Or tap the floor. Tell me that you understand.”

Mycroft cleared his throat. “I understand.”

Greg folded the belt in half and brought it down across Mycroft’s buttocks.

It was just hard enough to make a satisfying snap. Mycroft’s skin jumped beneath the blow, and turned pleasantly pink.

“One,” said Mycroft.

“No need to count,” said Greg. “Tell me you’re sorry.” He hit Mycroft again.

“I’m sorry. I was a fool. I wasn’t thinking, I--oh!”

The belt snapped harder.

“It was wrong of me.”

 _Crack_.

“I hurt you.”

_Thwack_. “I swear I didn’t realize how much.”

 _Whap_. 

“I thought you didn’t care, that Sherlock--”

Greg stopped.

“Mycroft.” He rubbed his buttocks, soothing the reddened skin. “How could you think for one moment that I didn’t fancy you?”

“How could I not see my sister was leaving that island? How could I not see that Sherlock is in love with Molly Hooper? I was blind, Greg. I’m supposed to see everything, and I was blind, and I’m sorry.” 

Greg set the belt down on the sofa. He placed his hand on the small of Mycroft’s back. “Up.”

Mycroft stood, legs unsteady.

Greg pulled him into his arms. 

Mycroft hesitated, then relaxed against him.

“I know,” said Greg. “I know you’re sorry, Mycroft, and I forgive you.”

Mycroft’s arms tightened around him.

“That doesn’t mean that what you did was okay. But it does mean that _we’re_ okay. Provided that you never, ever do anything like that again, as long as we’re together. That is…” he swallowed, “if you want to be together.”

“Of course I want to be together,” Mycroft breathed.

Greg kissed him.

Mycroft kissed back, fiercely, drawing their bodies close together. His cock was hard against his belly, pressing against Greg’s shirt front. The buttons pushed into Greg’s chest. Mycroft’s lips were soft and his tongue was hot and insistent in Greg’s mouth.

Greg pulled back, unbuttoning his shirt. “Take your socks off,” he nodded towards Mycroft’s garters. “You look ridiculous.” 

Mycroft flushed.

Greg stripped down as Mycroft shed his sock garters and socks. Then they made their way to the bedroom.

“You don’t know how much I’ve wanted you in my own bed,” Greg murmured, pulling Mycroft down to the mattress.

“I had no idea locale was so important to you.”

“The hotels were so impersonal.”

“That’s the point of hotels.”

“I know. But I wanted to bring you here. I want you to take me to yours. I want you.” He kissed Mycroft’s nose. “To get to know you.”

“There’s nothing much to know.”

“Oh, I doubt that.” Greg kissed Mycroft’s neck. “Very much.”


	5. Chapter 5

Mycroft bared his throat for Greg’s kiss, for his grasping fingertips. Greg responded by crossing his forearm across Mycroft’s chest, pulling him back firmly against Greg’s chest and hips. Mycroft pressed his buttocks backward into the fronts of Greg’s thighs, a sigh escaping his lips as Greg’s hard cock pressed against his cleft.

Greg rolled away, leaving Mycroft’s back exposed to the cool air, just long enough to open and shut the top drawer of the nightstand. Mycroft settled his breathing, listening for the snick of the bottle, shivering in anticipation as Greg smeared cool slickness against him. He rocked back against Greg’s fingers, bearing down as they breached the ring of muscle.

Greg twisted his fingers, opening Mycroft up efficiently, not cruelly but hardly gentle. He paused again; there was the crinkle of the condom packet, of flesh on flesh as Greg rolled it down. Mycroft let his breath out in a hiss, exhaling hard as Greg put his cock where his fingers had been, pausing to pour more lube on the head before pushing inside.

“Your turn,” Greg rasped.

Mycroft nodded. He breathed deep, bore down. His heartbeat pulsed in his arse. His muscles clenched around Greg. It burned. Slowly, he pushed back, sliding down until their hips were flush and Greg was fully seated.

Greg bit into the meat of his shoulder.

Mycroft cried out, more in surprise than pain.

Greg took that opportunity to move. He snapped his hips, dug his fingers into Mycroft’s sides. Mycroft gasped. Greg had never taken him like this, fast and fierce, keeping him right on the line between pleasure and pain. It was all he could do to stay relaxed, to surrender and let Greg have him.

After a few minutes, Greg rolled them both over onto their bellies. Mycroft huffed as Greg’s weight pushed the air out of him, exhaling in the jagged rhythm of Greg’s thrusts. He struggled up onto his forearms, pushing his hips back. Once he managed to get a small arch in his back, that was better. Every stroke hit his prostate, pushed his cock forward against the bedsheets. The edges of his vision were iridescent.

“Can you come like this?” Greg asked. “Untouched?”

“I--maybe.”

Greg grasped the back of his head, pinning him and riding him until he could hardly move. Sweat pooled between Greg’s belly and Mycroft’s back. His cock chafed against the sheets, the friction both too much and not enough. His insides burned white hot. The muscles in his legs tightened until they cramped. Satisfaction lay just beyond the reach of his curled toes.

Greg’s rhythm slowed, deepened. “Take it. Take it, I know you can.”

Mycroft could, the way he’d taken the stripes from Greg’s belt. This wasn’t about his pleasure. This was about Greg’s need to claim him. Mycroft gripped the sheets and let himself be claimed.

“Fuck,” Greg snapped into him. “God. Mycroft.” He thrust hard, pushing Mycroft forward onto the bed, and pulsed into the condom. Puffing and panting, he slumped forward and kissed the back of Mycroft’s head. Then he rolled to the side. Mycroft winced as he pulled out. He would feel that tomorrow. And probably the day after, too.

“I’m sorry,” murmured Greg. “I got… carried away.”

“It’s fine.”

“You didn’t come.”

“It was too intense. I couldn’t.”

“If you’d like, I can--”

“No. Really it’s fine. It’s… fair.”

“I wasn’t trying to… okay maybe I was trying to punish you. A little. But I hope I didn’t actually hurt you.”

“I’m fine. Are we fine?”

Greg rolled to face Mycroft, smoothing his hair back from his forehead. “Yeah. Thank you.”

Mycroft kissed him, pressing his lips to Greg’s, opening them slowly, sliding his tongue into Greg’s mouth. Greg hesitated at first, then kissed him back deeply. He wrapped his arms around Mycroft’s back.

It wasn’t as though they’d never kissed. Mycroft had snogged Greg thoroughly on half a dozen occasions. But it was the first time they’d kissed without it being a prelude to something. This was kissing for the sake of tasting and exploring, caressing tongues with tongues. Kissing, Greg’s mouth told him all sorts of things he might have said aloud if Mycroft hadn’t hurt him, things he now held back. Things no amount of kissing could draw out of him, at least not tonight. Mycroft ached when he thought of what he’d done, hoped his own lips were communicating how truly, desperately sorry he was for the harm he’d caused.

When at last they broke the kiss, Greg brushed Mycroft’s cheek with his fingertips. “How could you ever have doubted that?”

Mycroft sighed. “Because I doubted myself. And now I worry you will always doubt me.”

Greg dropped his hand. “Not always. But I’d be lying if I said I trust you today as much as I did yesterday, and it’s going to be a long time before I fully trust you again.”

“I know. And I’m sorry.”

“But I wouldn’t be doing this if I wasn’t going to try to trust you. Maybe I’m an idiot. I took Stephanie back again and again and everyone thought I was a fool. Including me. But I want to trust you.”

“I want you to trust me. I want to be worthy of your trust.”

“Then you will be.”

“Such faith you have in me.”

“I get the feeling you usually get what you want.”

Mycroft’s lips twisted. Because yes, he used to think of himself that way. Before his brother had pointed a gun at his heart, before he’d placed it under his chin.

“I’m sorry,” said Greg. “I only meant--”

“I know what you meant.”

Greg had believed in the persona he projected. Code name Antarctica. Confident. Controlled. The sort of man who gave his driver the address of a hotel without even consulting the object of his seduction, so sure was he of his reception.

“I hope it wasn’t what attracted you to me,” said Mycroft. “It’s smoke and mirrors. All of it.”

“It’s knowing your own capabilities and trusting in them, and yes, it’s hot as hell. But sexy as you are when you’re on a power trip, what really made me want you was seeing you that night after Sherrinford with your defenses down. You looked so--”

“Haggard?”

“Vulnerable.”

Mycroft winced.

“I know that’s maybe not what you wanted to hear, but…. I know how much you love Sherlock, and I’ve always admired it. I know what a thankless task it is, looking after him, and I can’t even imagine what that must have been like, what your sister did to the two of you.”

Mycroft swallowed around a lump in his throat.

“You were shaking, trying to light your cigarette. And I lit it for you. It was such a small thing, but it was something I could do for you. And it felt so right. You spend so much of your time taking care of him, and it occured to me that someone really should take care of you, and I… wanted that someone to be me.”

Nothing he could say would be adequate to the magnitude of this moment. Instead he kissed Greg again. 

They kissed and kissed, Greg rolling atop Mycroft and pressing him into the bed. _Tell me_ , Mycroft demanded silently, _tell me what you were going to tell me before._

But Greg wouldn’t, not after what he’d done. Not unless--

“I--care for you.” Mycroft broke the kiss, looking into Greg’s eyes. “I care for you, and I was afraid you were going to leave so I--”

“I know. I forget how much you’ve been through, that your world got turned upside down--that doesn’t make it okay, what you did, but I understand, and I’m sorry that you felt that way, that you hurt so badly you felt you had to do something like that.”

“You’re not the one who should be apologizing.”

“I know.”

“I’ll say it again: I am sorry. I hurt you, and I’m sorry, and I know it’s not enough to say I’m sorry. I will endeavor to show you how sorry I am and how much you mean to me.”

Greg smiled. “Well, I’m sure we can find some more mutually pleasurable ways for you to apologize.”

Mycroft’s cheeks heated. “About that. I--”

Greg kissed him. “I was teasing.”

“I wasn’t.”

“I know. And it was… good. What we did tonight. Different. And I wouldn’t mind doing it again. If you want.”

“I do.”

“Then I do, too. I want everything with you, Mycroft.”

The words had weight. Greg wasn’t just talking about sex. It was the closest he’d get to saying what he might have said before. Mycroft tucked them away into the rooms in his memory where he’d made space for Greg. They had grown substantially in the past few months.

“I want everything with you, too,” said Mycroft.

“Then you’ll have it.”

“Because I always get what I want?”

Greg stroked his cheek. “Because I’ll give it to you.”

Mycroft smiled. “I’ll take it.”


End file.
